


Nemesis Mine

by LadySerpentine



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BDSM, Blackmail, Bondage, Dubious Consent, Exploitation, M/M, Master/Slave, Non-con (Chapter 3 only), Polyamory, Rape/Non-con Elements, Season 1, Season 4 Spoilers, Shibari
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-07
Updated: 2017-08-31
Packaged: 2018-10-29 07:31:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10849344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadySerpentine/pseuds/LadySerpentine
Summary: Mycroft Holmes sits in an interrogation room, facing James Moriarty.He needs to ask him a favour, but he deduces far more about him than he realised. Moriarty has not only coerced Sherlock into sleeping with him, but they have begun a relationship, and that relationship is not exclusive.What follows is the evolution of a family, with Moriarty's polyamorous group crossing over with the established relationship between Mycroft and Greg Lestrade, and the ultimate taboo.Contains spoilers, set in season two, prior to Reichenbach.





	1. Interrogation

Mycroft had let him stew for an hour in the tiny interrogation room. The walls were jagged, designed to put the occupant at ill ease... and also coated with Kevlar, to prevent him carving Sherlock's name into the plaster.

Again. 

It should have really been a sign last time that he shouldn't have released him, ever. But Mycroft Holmes often did things just to see how they panned out, like the time he let Eurus on Twitter for an hour, and she predicted the dates of the next three terrorist attacks on British soil. With Moriarty, he had wanted to see what his obsession was with Sherlock, but the bastard had been far too tricky. He had doubles, who interfered with his surveillance, and meant he lost track of the real target. 

That must have been the time he first got to Sherlock, and deducing what he had from seeing the two of them together, and now staring at him through the mirror of the interrogation room, he had a sick feeling in his stomach. His brother had been coerced. Even if it was love now, it had not started that way, and Mycroft was worried it was some sort of twisted Stockholm Syndrome, whereby Sherlock had fallen in love with his abuser. 

But Moriarty wasn't just sleeping with his brother. The silver hair on his suit told him that, and all Mycroft could think was John Watson... but that simply couldn't be right, could it? 

He had had enough. 

He entered the room, digital recorder in hand, and a notebook so he could scribble down any thoughts and deductions that came to him. The room had recording devices built in, but he did so love having his own personal copy. 

"Mister Moriarty," he said coldly, taking a seat at the other side of the table. "Let us begin, shall we?"

Moriarty leaned back in his chair, cocksure and arrogant as ever. He gave him a broad smile, an attempt at charm, no doubt, and said, “Congratulations are in order, I see. Well done, you!” 

He rolled his eyes at James' offer of congratulations.

"Thank you," he sneered. "But my relationship is hardly any of your business, is it? Given that you are related to neither party." 

Moriarty's eyes crinkled at the corners, grinning like he had just spotted a massive vulnerability.

"I think you're wrong about that Mister Holmes, we're practically brother in laws these days. Makes us family, doesn't it bro!?" he singsonged, taunting him. 

Mycroft didn't respond, or so much as flinch. He pressed record on the device, and began.

"Case BT1542300./JM. Information included during this recording classified as most secret, to be assessed only by those with clearance level Ultra," he said, tapping the device. "Subject is James 'Jim' Moriarty, person of interest in too many cases to note in one recording."

He steepled his fingers and glared at the man he had just named.

"The last time you were with us, you carved Sherlock Holmes' name into these walls. As you can see, we have redecorated since then, as we did not care for your taste in interior design," he said scathingly. "How did your current relationship with Sherlock Holmes begin?" 

The question of Eurus could wait for now. First, he needed to satisfy his curiosity. 

"How did it start?" Moriarty asked, apparently deciding to be honest, but very literal. "I sent him a phone and a puzzle, you'll remember it I'm sure. As to why he got my attention, well, he's rather famous you know, and I took an interest. He really is very pretty."

Mycroft's knuckles tightened. Wanting some payback for Moriarty objectifying Sherlock, he glanced at Moriarty's cheek, and said archly, "That's quite a bruise on your face, Mister Moriarty. Vexed any British soldiers of late?"

Moriarty smiled, his eyes gleaming wickedly in the dreary lights of the interrogation room. He crossed his arms over his chest, tilting his head back and forth as though stretching out a stiff neck, but it seemed more like he was deliberately showing off the vivid bruise on his cheek.

"I thought you wanted information that could bring the criminal world of London to it's knees, not to ask me how I first started sleeping with your little brother,” he said, feigning indignance. “Let's focus on that shall we?"

The nerve of him. The unmitigated gall! How very dare he take the moral high ground in this situation! 

"You are being deliberately facetious, and your resistance will be noted!" Mycroft said in an imperial sneer. A vein in his forehead twitched, and he clenched his jaw. 

For goodness' sake, if Sherlock Holmes had agreed to conduct a sordid affair with this bastard by choice, Mycroft might have to look into having his mental health assessed. 

Again. 

He said more calmly, "I will ask once more. How did your physical relationship with Sherlock Holmes begin. You coerced him, didn't you? Blackmailed, threatened, manipulated his love for others into a situation he could not escape from!" 

He needed to know. If that was how it started, if that was all it still was, he couldn't trust him with the information about Eurus, he just couldn't... as it would mean that the love he thought the man had for his brother wouldn't be enough to protect him from Moriarty's manic need to cause chaos.

First," he began, "However this started, it's not what it is now. I love him!" 

Mycroft wondered idly if he would get away with punching the man. 

"And if you remove me from his life, he and John will never speak to you again. You have no idea how important we are to each other,” Moriarty sneered. He glanced Mycroft up and down, and added, "Then again maybe you do."

Mycroft, implacable and cold, sat still in his chair, glowering at Moriarty. 

"Don't you dare compare your relationship to mine," he hissed. What else could the career criminal be talking about? The man didn't deduce, not like Sherlock did. No, he was more like Mycroft. He learned everything about a person before he ever met them, trusting on a variety of sources so his information was accurate. 

"Yes, I used John Watson as a bargaining tool when we first began fucking,” Moriarty admitted, and folded his arms behind his head, leaning back with a smug smile on his detestible face. "Oh, he was such a pretty virgin, and he took me so well that first time..." 

Mycroft visibly bristled when Moriarty spoke so crudely, detesting him. He glanced up at the CCTV cameras, tempted to disabled them so he could slam his smug, gloating face off the table. 

"I will hurt you, Mister Moriarty," Mycroft warned. "And unlike John Watson, I won't show such mercy to your bone structure." 

It seemed as though Moriarty understood, and he dropped the cocksure act for a time, becoming more cold and deadly, like a venomous adder. 

"He wanted me Mycroft Holmes, before I so much as mentioned Doctor Watson, he wanted me. And we both knew it, but he wouldn't let himself surrender to his desires because he had the angel perched on his shoulder, I imagine it sounded rather like you. Telling him it was wrong, he couldn't, shouldn't. And then there was the fact that he's been in love with John for years. He didn't want to give up on that, even though he wanted, desired me, he loved me but couldn't admit it."

"He needed... a push, a shove really." 

He smirked, making Mycroft's stomach turn. 

"So I gave it to him."

When the cocky routine vanished, Mycroft sat, breathing a little more deeply, trying to sort the fact from fiction... and to his surprise, the fiction was non-existent. He sank back in his seat, exhaling sharply. 

"John loves him too, but you already knew that. He's finally accepted it, knows he's gay, knows Sherlock loves him." He leaned forward, "What does it tell you, Mister Holmes, when I've not only allowed John Watson into our bed, but our relationship as an equal?" he said, and the words were a challenge. 

Mycroft studied him for several minutes in silence, and then rose from his chair. He left the room, and didn't return for half an hour. 

When he did, he was carrying two styrofoam cups -- tea for himself, and coffee for Moriarty, made precisely the way Moriarty usually took it. He set them down, and resumed his seat. 

It was time to tell Moriarty why he was here.


	2. Acquittal and Escalation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Before Mycroft admits why he brought Moriarty to MI5, we need to go back in time to Moriarty's trial, and resulting acquittal. Instead of antagonising Moriarty, Sherlock lets something slip, and Moriarty decides to change his final goal.

“ _Sherlock, are you listening to me?_ ”  

 

John's voice was tense, stressed. He sounded annoyed. Then again, he tended to sound that way most of the time.  

 

“ _He's out, he'll be coming for you -- !_ ”  

 

Sherlock hung up, unperturbed.

 

So boring! 

 

He went to the kitchen, boiled the kettle. Tea was placed in the teapot. It was placed in preparation for his arrival in the living room.   Not John's arrival, oh heavens, no.   Someone far more intriguing, of course.  

 

He faced out the window, playing _Bach's Violin Sonata No. 1 in G Minor, Adagio_. He may have been showing off a little, what of it? One might ask for whom he was showing off, considering he was alone in the flat, but that would have been evident if you had been paying attention all along.  

 

Ever since their Great Game began, Sherlock counted exactly four times that he has been in his flat, in his bed.  

 

There were no signs of forced entry, nothing else disturbed. The only signs were deliberately placed, intentionally left behind to let him know.  

 

 _I can get to you, any time at all, Sherlock. Locks and bolts won't keep me out._  

 

Black hair on his pillow. Finer black hair on his bed sheet.   A telltale wet stain on his favourite purple shirt, left among rumpled bed clothes.  

 

Sherlock had shivered when he deduced who it was, and what the stain was.   Such a shame he didn't view it as the intimidation it had been intended as.   It was as good as a love note, or whatever twisted version of a love note his warped mind could devise.   What would John say if he knew that Sherlock's reaction to such an intrusion and message was to curl up in those same sheets, his chest rising and falling almost as swiftly as his hand did, curled around his own cock as he stroked himself to completion?

 

Every time he had invaded Sherlock's room since then, he had always chosen the same shirt, always left the same signs. Just a shame Sherlock had never been able to predict when he would arrive, or he would have left a message of his own.  

 

Today, Sherlock had made sure the shirt was dry cleaned. The purple fabric skimmed his narrow body beautifully. What better way to tell him, without needing any words at all, that the intimidation tactic had backfired?    

 

As he played, he heard a creak on the stairs, and his bowing arm faltered for only the barest moment, his heart rate speeding up. The steps resumed with his music, and the moment he heard the door open, he lowered his bow.  

 

“Most people knock,” he said. “But then, you're not most people, I suppose.”  

 

“Most people lock their doors when they know I'm coming,” came the reply, mocking laughter in his tone. “But you're not most people, either.”  

 

Sherlock turned to face him, and immediately felt his pupils dilate with want. The suit -- dove grey, English cut (of course) with dual vents at the back, white shirt, creamy coloured tie with a pearl tie pin, hair slicked back, eyebrows perfectly groomed. He was immaculate, as always.  

 

“Kettle's just boiled,” Sherlock said, as though he wasn't all but drooling at the sight of him.  

 

“May I?” Moriarty asked, intending to sit down whether or not Sherlock agreed.  

 

“Please,” Sherlock rumbled, gesturing to John's chair with his bow, violin still held in his left hand.  

 

Moriarty took Sherlock's chair instead, sitting in it as though he was lord of the manor.  

 

Sherlock bristled a little. He liked his chair, he liked his own things, and his own routine, but he would cope with it for now.  As an intimidation tactic, it was masterful.  Take Sherlock's familiar creature comforts away, and he would be thrown off balance. Sherlock merely needed to remember that this time, he had people to cling on to to help him stay upright.

 

He returned his violin to its case and fetched the kettle, filling up the teapot he prepared earlier with steaming hot water. The kettle was swiftly returned to the kitchen as Moriarty rambled, sounding bored, telling some story about Bach on his deathbed, and hating an unfinished melody.  

 

Sherlock permitted him to talk at length as he prepared tea, noting the way his nemesis paused mid-sentence as he stooped to pick up the cup. He was enjoying the subtle show, then.

 

He held out a cup to Moriarty, who took it, and also took the time to look Sherlock up and down slowly, his eyes lingering on the close-fitting purple shirt. There was a glimmer of recognition on Moriarty's face, and a sudden dilation to his dark brown eyes.   Sherlock's lips parted ever so slightly.  

 

“Sherlock,” Moriarty purred, running his eyes slowly over Sherlock's body. “Darling, you're _drooling_.”  

 

Sherlock immediately closed his mouth, and glanced away, preparing his own cup of tea.  

 

“Sit down,” Moriarty ordered. “You'll have to use your pet human's chair. I couldn't tolerate the stench of it the last time I was here.”  

 

“There is nothing wrong with how John smells. I find it perfectly acceptable,” Sherlock retorted, pleased by the sudden flash of rage across Moriarty's face. He was playing a dangerous game, antagonising him, but the predatory look did things to him he had never anticipated before.    He took a seat when bidden, wanting to obey even while part of him was screaming that he should not.  

 

“Maybe I should get a live-in one,” Moriarty mused, almost to himself, while Sherlock settled into his chair.  

 

“Much like Bach, you can't stand an unfinished melody either. It's why you've come,” the detective said, desperate to change the subject, and if he hesitated ever so slightly before he said “come”, well, so be it.  

 

“Oh, be honest,” Moriarty mocked. “You're just a tiny bit pleased!”  

 

“With what? The verdict?”  

 

“With me.”  

 

Sherlock gulped.  

 

“... With the little presents I've left you. Did you like them?”  

 

Sherlock suppressed a shiver, and raised his teacup to his lips. His pale cheeks were blotchy, the beginnings of a blush rising to the surface. He crossed his legs to conceal any unwanted tells from his treacherous cock, and without words, he had told Moriarty exactly how much he had enjoyed his “presents”.  

 

“Ahhh...” Moriarty drawled.  

 

Something in the criminal's dark eyes gleamed. Sherlock had reacted to his visits in an unexpected, but very welcome way. There had been such a slim chance that he would, and yet, he was so pleased that he had. Time to re-assess his plans, and go for plan B, the plan he had desperately hoped for, but had always doubted would happen. If Sherlock proved to be as sickeningly moral and boring as he had feared, plan A would go ahead as arranged, beginning with a newspaper article that very weekend. Come to think of it, he really needed to contact his journalist, and nix the exposé, as long as this meeting continued along the path it was ambling down.  

 

“Nasty, this game of ours,” he remarked. “And yet you believe you have it all in hand?”  

 

Sherlock blew on his tea, even while Moriarty sipped his, seemingly oblivious to the scalding temperature.  

 

"Oh not yet, but I will," Sherlock drawled. "You don't want money, that much is clear. What is it you're after, Moriarty?"  

 

He could have killed him, at any time. He's been in Sherlock's flat, in his bed. He's had snipers pointing guns at him, a bomb strapped to John's chest. He could have had him dead, seventeen times over by now, but he's never taken the chance.   Sherlock dared to hope.  

 

Moriarty tutted, clicking his tongue softly against the roof of his mouth in disgust.  

 

"Please. Money is  _sooo_ boring! No, think Sherlock -- I know you can -- what is the best thing in the world? The one thing that no-one can get enough of?" he taunted.  

 

He fixed Sherlock with a look that had the detective's cheeks prickling with a sudden rush of blood.   

 

"Power, or something so dreadfully dull," Sherlock drawled, sure his feint at nonchalance would be easily spotted, but desperate to not come across as, well, _desperate_. "Everyone wants power. Usually denotes an inferiority complex of some kind." He raised an eyebrow, asking sweetly, "Compensating for some disappointment in your life, Moriarty?"

 

“Oh! Clever, very clever, very clever...” he mocked, descending into a sneering laugh. The laugh stopped abruptly, his expression transforming from jeering into one of deadly intent. “Perhaps I'll give you a taste and you can tell me if I am compensating."

 

Sherlock's smile died on his lips, and his blush only seemed to intensify.

 

"As for dull, yes, yes, boring, blah, blah! Please Sherlock, you know me better than that! Do you think for a moment I would be dull for you? Good heavens, no, this is all about you my dear, and oh what a ride it will be! Just you wait and see, darling,” Moriarty continued, and Sherlock was by now about ready to whimper.

 

While having a woman or even a man flirt with him left him nonplussed, while others laughed at him for being so clueless, Sherlock was painfully aware that Moriarty was flirting with him. Bloody hell, it wasn't even as subtle as flirting, he was in outright seduction territory now, his legs spread wide, oozing power and charisma in the chair.

 

“Speaking of clever, have you told all your little friends yet?” he asked.

 

Sherlock shook his head, not trusting his own voice right now.

 

“Not even John?” he asked pointedly, and oh, how he wanted to string him up, and slowly shave all his flesh away to the bone. Watch the stoic, brave British soldier squirm under him, hurt him in the most exquisite ways until he begged and broke... He wondered how far he'd get till the pathetic little worm would die. Not as far as he'd like, he was sure.

 

Sherlock was immediately on guard, and Moriarty's smile became manic.

 

“John is my friend, and he may keep me sane, but I don't share everything with him,” Sherlock retorted defensively.

 

"It would be such a shame for the good doctor to come to some sort of grisly accident, don't you think?" It was a threat, a very very real one, and after what he'd just heard, he had already decided that the doctor had to die. Moriarty didn't want Sherlock human, didn't want him _sane_.

 

"If he does, I could just let Mycroft deal with you the way he wants to," Sherlock growled. "He won't make it nearly as much fun as I will." Sherlock's eyes narrowed. He'd sooner die than let anyone hurt John Watson, and he communicated this to Moriarty, silently. He could see the urge to maim, rip, tear John to shreds, and he won't have it.

 

_John is a deal breaker. Touch him, you lose me._

 

He stared at Moriarty, chin stubbornly set, eyes fixated on him. 

 

Moriarty sighed inwardly. 

 

A deal breaker was just no fun.

 

"You're not playing fair Sherly, and it's very cruel of you," Moriarty taunted, pretending to sound very put out, in fact he rather was. Still, he would make it work. Getting Sherlock Holmes in his bed instead of on a roof top would be far preferable a plan.

 

"Nor are you, Moriarty," Sherlock pointed out. "Intimidation and blackmail of jurors is hardly fair."

 

He drank his tea demurely, pretending that he wasn't completely and utterly affected by the consulting criminal's mere presence. God, but he was beautiful, even for a complete and utter psycho.

 

He sipped his tea and watched Sherlock carefully, the teacup settling back into the saucer with a soft clatter as he set it down. His eyes lit up, and in the same way that Sherlock had told him not to harm his _dear_ Watson, he said without words, _I won't touch your precious Doctor if you give me something I want._

 

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, intrigued. He brought his cup to his mouth, and took a delicate sip. He couldn't deny how much he wanted to say yes, but he had to at least fight it. Couldn't make it too easy for him, not a dangerous madman like this. Besides, Sherlock was nothing if not a recalcitrant bastard at the best of times.

 

_What is it you want, Moriarty?_

 

Moriarty smirked.

 

Oh, but he knew he'd won now. He would have what he wanted from Sherlock Holmes, and it thrilled him.

 

_Your body, in every variation I can think of._

 

His eyes flicked suggestively over the man's thin, sinewy frame.

 

 _Submission,_  he seemed to scream with his body language as he did so.

 

Sherlock's jaw slackened, and immediately clamped shut, swallowing down a wave of nerves. He had done some internet “research” after the case with the Woman, purely to satisfy his own morbid curiosity. What he had found was that he had no interest in doing what Irene Adler did, but the thought of being the one at the mercy of another, especially one who was powerful and cruel and beautiful, had resulted in Sherlock doing a little more exploration, culminating in what he insisted was an experiment that John could not participate in.

 

Carefully disguised, wearing a mask so he wouldn't be identified, Sherlock had attended one of London's fetish nights, simply to observe. Despite many offers from dominants wishing to play with him, Sherlock had declined each one, deciding that while the idea of being dominated aroused him, he had no interest in actively indulging in the practise. When he arrived home, and allowed himself the rare pleasure of his own hand, the dominant he conjured in his mind palace had dark eyes and hair, and despite his shorter stature seemed to tower over him, his commands made with the softest curl of an Irish accent...

 

He moistened his lips, gazing wide eyed up at Moriarty.

 

He had many questions, but the hungry look in Moriarty's eyes told him that he was done waiting for Sherlock to decide.

 

The consulting criminal rose from his chair and peered down his nose at Sherlock, his pose oozing dominance and demanding that Sherlock fall to his knees in obedience. In that moment, Sherlock realised why he had no interest in sex, or women, or even the rather attractive dominants he had encountered at the fetish night. This one man had everything he needed and wanted.

 

If he hadn't threatened John, he would have agreed wholeheartedly.

 

He hesitated. 

 

As though sensing Sherlock's hesitation, the career criminal advanced on him where he sat in John's chair, and seized a fist full of his soft curls. He was distracted by the sensation under his palm, and for the briefest moment, the gesture was more of a caress than the act of violence he had intended it to be. Seeming to remember himself, eyes flickering, he tightened his grip, and yanked Sherlock's head back by his curls, forcing him to look up. The detective's lips parted in a barely audible gasp that not even he was certain was out of pain, pleasure, or both.

 

"You _will_ submit to me," Moriarty hissed, "or I will make you watch me cut out his heart."

 

Silence, broken only by the throb of heartbeats in their ears, so loud they each wonder could the other hear it, and wonder again how anyone could not. The beating of their respective heartbeats seemed to stretch into infinity.

 

Sherlock, finally seeing the intensity of James Moriarty when it was directed solely on him, wavered in his resolve.

 

He narrowed his eyes.

 

"I will never submit to you under duress," he growled. "I will submit to you freely, willingly, of my own volition right now --" Seeing the gleam of victory in his eyes, Sherlock reached out, grasping James Moriarty's hips lightly as he continued to speak, "-- but _only_ if you withdraw the threat to John."

 

He moistened his lips.

 

"Take it back," he whispered. "Take it back, and you may have me, any way you wish."

 

There was silence again, while they both considered the immensity of his offer.

 

"Submission, Sherlock, is just no fun unless it's achieved under duress," Moriarty purred like a lioness spotted a gazelle she's wounded, and pressed his mouth to Sherlock's ear. "Submit to me, and there is no threat to John Watson. Keep fighting me, I'll fuck you anyway, and destroy you both when I'm done. Do you really want to throw your lives away on a matter of principle? Really, Sherly, I had thought you better than that..."

 

He then bit down hard on Sherlock's neck, and this time, the detective could not prevent the shiver that ran through him, nor the very audible cry that slipped from his mouth. His legs parted, instinctively wanting him closer.

 

Moriarty took a step back, raising an eyebrow. The challenge was clear.

 

Sherlock, flushed and trembling, sank to his knees in front of his chair, and clasped his hands behind his back as he had seen submissives do in the past. He looked up at Moriarty, grey eyes appearing almost brown from how dilated they were.

 

James watched the whole beautiful display from only a few feet away, his eyes gleaming.

 

He fastened his palm and fingers around Sherlock's curls again, the grasp intentionally tender this time.

 

"Tell me, honey... do you enjoy pain?" he asked. "It doesn't matter in the slightest if you don't, by the way. This will hurt, but it will be so much more fun if you enjoy pain. For you, anyway."

 

Sherlock's eyes closed then, his heart thumping wildly. This is why he never went in for this sort of thing! It was difficult to tell if this was apprehension or anticipation he was feeling, and when a blunt thumb nail traced his jawline, his eyes fluttered open in shock. Before he had time to react, Moriarty's mouth was on his, kissing him so aggressively that Sherlock felt as though he might fall backwards. The kiss remained intense, but soon lips were replaced with teeth, fastening around the detective's lower lip fiercely enough to draw blood.

 

He let out a low whimper, and that made Moriarty pull away, looking askance at him.

 

"So, Sherly... do you enjoy pain?" he asked, and Sherlock shivered at the sight of his own blood on the criminal's lips. Moriarty licked the blood away, and Sherlock felt his brain white out.

 

"I ... I don't rightly know."

 

Sherlock was startled as Moriarty sank to his knees before him, gazing at him with wide eyes that made Sherlock's brow furrow. He flinched as Moriarty's hands moved to his face, gently cupping the detective's high cheekbones in the curl of his palms.

 

"You don't know!" Moriarty murmured. "My God, you really are a virgin! I had deduced, thought, even hoped..."

 

The kiss, this time, was softer and kinder, but Sherlock was under no illusions as to whom was in control.

 

"Yes, I am," he confessed, the kiss having taken him off guard, wondering if James Moriarty realised just what it meant that he was willing to do this at all. He had eschewed all things sexual (save for occasional masturbation, because sometimes it helped him sleep or clear his mind), and the reason he was doing this, giving away his virginity and his control, was a sign of how much he loved John Watson. Sherlock tried not to think too much about how excited he was to have James Moriarty be the one he lost his virginity to.

 

"Come along then, let's go to that big old bed of yours," James said, his words more of a taunt than an invitation. "I won't be gentle with you, Sherlock, but I will be careful. At least, I'll be careful this first time."

 

Sherlock shivered, and this time, it was nothing to do with anticipation.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maaaaaajor smut coming next chapter. Wanted to give people fair warning. Sorry this took so long! Been a crazy few months. As always, co-written with the wonderful tinibazinga, and mucked about by myself.


	3. Exploited

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaaaand enter smut. Dub-con (non-con to some) in the middle, blood and pain play. Look away, look away should ye no likey that sorta thing.

Sherlock hadn't expected any sort of tenderness. 

Moriarty was capable of atrocities that kept Mycroft Holmes up at night, and Sherlock anticipated that he would be mistreated, taken advantage of, and fucked rather than made love to. Not that he objected, of course. If there was any hint of love, he would have run a mile, and trusted Mycroft to protect John from Moriarty. 

However, when James took his hand and led him to the bedroom, Sherlock was taken off guard. Heart racing, palms clammy, he still wasn't quite sure when anticipation began to take over the nerves. He felt like a drunk trying to walk a straight line, veering widely from side to side, dipping in and out of anxiety and want. 

Clever fingers pushed Sherlock's jacket from his shoulders, and a moment later, those fingers were unbuttoning his too-tight purple shirt. Sherlock, virgin that he was, stood there and allowed it all to happen, unsure what to do, where to let his gaze fall, let alone his hands. Taking advantage of Moriarty's focus on his clothing, Sherlock gazed at the criminal's face. His expression was rapt, completely consumed with what he was doing and looking at, and Sherlock at once recognised the same expression from his own face. Sherlock only ever looked like this when he was studying a case gifted to him by Jim Moriarty. 

His breath hitched in his throat as Moriarty's palms stroked over the cotton of his shirt. 

"I do like this," he murmured as he pulled the fabric from Sherlock's body. "You wore it just for little old me, didn't you, Sherlock?"

He raised his eyes up to meet his, and Sherlock had to pretend that he wasn't just staring at him. 

"Two sizes too small," he said, biting his lower lip. "To show off my body for you." He was trying to inject some of his usual arrogance into the words, but he felt they fell flat. 

James' reactive smirk provoked something of a lurch in his stomach, a feeling that only grew more intense as he unbuttoned Sherlock's trousers, shoving them and his boxers down his hips. They pooled around his ankles, leaving him in just his socks. Moriarty let out a slow whistle as his eyes followed every dip and curve of Sherlock's pale body. 

"Oh honey, it is a crime that you ever wear clothes!" he remarked, making Sherlock duck his head to conceal his blush. 

"Get rid of the socks, then get on the bed," he ordered, and Sherlock immediately complied. From the bed, he could watch Moriarty shedding his clothes, the expensive suit tossed on top of the detective's dresser, knocking over a framed photo of young Sherlock with a very overweight teenage Mycroft. 

The clatter didn't distract him. He stood before the suddenly very nervous detective, completely disrobed, and watched his eyes. He was pleased, very pleased, when Sherlock couldn't help but look at him. His gaze raked over Moriarty's body, and when he finally dared look between his legs, Moriarty had to stifle a laugh at the way the innocent detective's eyes widened. He was still flaccid, but he was definitely a show-er rather than a grower, as the crass saying went. 

"You have lube?" Moriarty demanded, breaking Sherlock's gaze. 

Sherlock seemed to almost gasp as he tore his eyes away from Jim's cock (and oh, that fed his ego), cheeks pink and biting his lip as he looked up at him. 

"I-in the drawer," he said, pointing at the bedside table. "I don't have any ... condoms. Never saw a reason to buy them. John might have some, if you want." 

James shook his head. "No condoms. I want to feel you. And I get tested regularly, so you needn't worry. I'll leave you with nothing but a craving for more, Sherly, promise," he said, winking. He took the lube from the drawer, and raised an eyebrow when he caught sight of the label. Turning it to Sherlock, he gave him a wickedly amused look. 

"Peach flavour?" he asked, making Sherlock's blush intensify. 

"It smells nice," he protested weakly, shrugging his shoulders. 

Moriarty chuckled, and tossed the bottle onto the bed beside Sherlock. He advanced on him, looming over him, and shoved him onto his back. Sherlock, when he was prone and naked, looked dreadfully vulnerable. James felt his cock twitch, thinking how much more helpless he would be hogtied. 

"I think next time, I'll be bringing some ropes," he told him, running his hands up the insides of his thighs and shoving them apart. Sherlock let out a whimper, squirming a little under his touch. His wide eyes and teeth chafed lower lip were almost as heady as the drugs Sherlock so often abused. Jim smirked, noting the fact that Sherlock's cock began to harden at the mere mention of rope. 

"There's going to be a next time?" Sherlock asked, wanting to sound hesitant but it came out as hopeful. 

"Yes, there'll be a next time," came the reply as Moriarty stroked himself to hardness, the process fascinating Sherlock. It was certainly the biggest he had seen in real life, and was bigger than he had expected such a short man to have. "Even if you swear you won't want it again, you'll be the one to beg for me to return, won't you, my little pet?"

Sherlock shivered. 

"Turn over," Moriarty suddenly instructed. "Knees under your body, arse in the air. Let's find out if you'll enjoy pain or not." 

Sherlock obeyed, adopting the pose requested of him, more unsure than ever what to do with his hands. His heart thudded against his rib cage, feeling more exposed than he ever had in his life. 

Moriarty chuckled wickedly, and Sherlock gasped as he felt nails scratching down his back. He writhed, arching his back instinctively. Why should a scratch feel that good? Scratches were supposed to be painful! As a chemist, he would have to research this. Perhaps it was due to the anticipation of what was going to be done to him? Was it a physiological response to something else or --

His train of thought derailed the second he smelled the familiar peach scent of his lube, and a second later, the cool fluid was dripping down his virgin hole. 

His hands splayed out and then clenched in response. 

"Put your hands on the headboard, honey. You'll want the leverage," Moriarty said, his voice sounding amused. 

"Yes, sir," he responded softly, unsure where the "sir" had come from, but he hoped it would be well received. He raised trembling hands to the headboard, keeping his head down. 

He flinched a little at the feeling of Moriarty's lube soaked fingers tracing his hole, and tried forcing himself to relax. He was trembling, however, beginning to be afraid that it would hurt him more than it would be pleasurable. 

In a very small voice, he said, "Please don't hurt me too much..." 

He felt Jim's fingers pause, and an irritated sigh escaped him. Cursing his own bleeding heart when it came to Sherlock Holmes, he snapped, "Turn over!" 

When Sherlock complied, his brow furrowed in confusion, James didn't even give him time to settle down on the bed before he was ducking his head and sucking Sherlock's whole cock into his mouth and down his throat. As he swallowed around it, making Sherlock unleash a loud moan, he pressed his lube coated finger inside him, seeking out his prostate. Sherlock clenched around him, and Moriarty waited, his own experience telling him that the human body could only remain tense for so long before it naturally relaxed. He was rewarded a few moments later, and responded by adding a second finger. 

Sherlock moaned like a seasoned whore, but before they could get any further, his phone began to ring. 

Cursing, he fumbled on the bed, snatching it up to shut it off, thoroughly distracted by Jim's mouth on his cock until he realised who it was. 

"It's Lestrade!" he wailed. "It must be about the court case. If I don't answer, he'll have half of Scotland Yard down here!" 

James pulled off with a growl, glowering at Sherlock. "The fact that you can still form words is beyond insulting. Answer the damn thing!" His furious expression was a clear warning that Sherlock should not refuse him.

Sherlock nodded, but hesitated when James interrupted him. “Oh, and Sherlock? If he shows up here with police before I'm gone – our agreement is null and void, and John Watson will die.” 

His face had been flushed, but the moment a threat was made against John, he blanched, looking more terrified than aroused now. 

The second Sherlock hit the accept call button, Jim swallowed him right to the base, and Sherlock had to bite his tongue to strangle his groan as those wicked fingers breached his hole again. He would later describe the experience as "a very enjoyable assault on my prostate" teamed with the blow job of a lifetime. 

"Graham! Not a good time right now!" he said, his voice strangled as he clutched the phone to his ear. In between his own responses, he bit down on his own knuckles to mute the ridiculous noises Jim was eliciting from him. 

"Sherlock, it's important!" Greg protested. "Moriarty was found not guilty, and he's been released. He'll be coming for you!" 

Moriarty could obviously hear every word, as that line earned an amused snort, even with his mouth full. 

"I can have a unit at Baker Street in less than five minutes if you need it, Sherlock... Sherlock? Oh, for God's sake, are you even listening to me?" the police officer grumbled. 

Sherlock opened his mouth, and said in a panic, “No! No need for that!” Moriarty glared, insulted that he could still talk. His mouth sucked at Sherlock with renewed intensity, his fingers fucking him hard and fast now, not letting up for even a moment on his prostate. Sherlock could feel the tip of his cock nudging against something – surely it wasn't the back of James' throat? But yes, yes it was, and James only continued to swallow wetly around him, his nose pressed to Sherlock's smooth stomach, a fuzzy line of hair that ran from his navel to his pubic bone tickling the criminal's nose as he worked him into a frenzy. 

Sherlock squeaked out, “I'm just fine, I...”

Before he could go any further, Lestrade's aghast voice came down the line again. “Sherlock, are you – are you wanking!? What in bloody hell, Sherlock, really!? If someone's on the phone, you don't do that! Have some decency!” 

“Don't be absurd!” Sherlock retorted, trying to sound like he wasn't being wrecked six ways to Sunday, and failing miserably. “I'm fine. I'm hanging up now.” 

If he had hoped that Greg's voice would make his desire wane, he was foolishly incorrect. If anything, the thought of getting caught, of Greg figuring out that he was losing his virginity right fucking now made it so much worse for him. 

James twisted his fingers, applying more pressure to his prostate right in that moment, and Sherlock lost it. He came so hard that his vision went dark, and the noises he made were downright obscene, culminating in a bone deep groan as James suckled every drop of come from him. 

Lestrade was spluttering and swearing at him, sounding disgusted. 

Ignoring whatever he was saying (although he certainly got the gist of it), Sherlock took a shaky breath, and said very casually, “Sorry about that, Lestrade. Shut my foot in the fridge door. Bye!” He immediately hung up, and burst into laughter. He covered his face with both hands, unable to help himself, his shoulders shaking with giggles. 

James lifted his head, pulling away from Sherlock's wilting cock, and raised an eyebrow. He leaned his head on his hand, and taunted with a smirk, “Well, looks like someone has the makings of an exhibitionist. We'll have to explore that in future, won't we?” His mind was already cooking up something particularly devious that he wanted Lestrade to walk in on, or better yet, someone else... 

“A drama queen like me, an exhibitionist?” Sherlock teased. “Surely not...”

Sherlock was still giggling, mortified at himself. James decided that was quite enough of that, and slapped his inner thigh sharply to get his attention and shut him up. 

“As you were, Sherlock,” he ordered. “Turn over, head down, arse up. I've made sure it won't hurt much, if at all. Now – let me have you!”

Sherlock yelped in response to the slap, his spent cock twitching, and glanced down from between his splayed fingers. When he saw an impatient Moriarty stroking himself, watching him, he hurried to comply with his orders. 

“Next time, I want to taste you,” Sherlock said shyly, unable to believe his daring, but his confidence had surged even as his nerves had waned. He felt oddly bereft without James Moriarty's cunning fingers inside him, and he wriggled his rear end in what he hoped was an enticing manner. 

“Oh, honey...” James mocked. “You don't get to make the rules here. What you want doesn't matter in the slightest.” His words trailed off in an obscene purr as he lined up his cock to Sherlock's stretched hole. 

Without any more warning than that, he began to push inside him at a steady, unrelenting pace. Inch by inch, he pressed deeper and deeper into Sherlock's tight, hot, virgin hole. The knowledge of what he was doing was enough to make his head swim, knowing that Sherlock was giving up his virginity to him, submitting to him, all to protect John Watson from his wrath. 

“Fuck, you're tight,” he growled, slapping Sherlock's arse and immediately regretting it. The slap had caused him to clench even more, yelping in pain, his grasp fumbling on the headboard. 

“Relax, would you!” he snapped. “Stop fighting it, and bear down. Trust me, it will make this better for both of us, because I'm not stopping until you're filled with my come.” 

Sherlock let out a low whimper, biting his lower lip so he wouldn't cry out in pain. James hadn't stretched him enough, or maybe he hadn't used enough lubrication. Either way, things had changed from enjoyable to painful. 

“Can't help it, it hurts,” he whined. “Can you give me a moment? Please? I just need to adjust.” 

He immediately began tensing his muscles from his neck downward, trying to use a sort of progressive muscle relaxation technique he had learned years ago, but as quickly as possible. 

Moriarty, however, had reached the end of his patience.

His prize was in sight, and he wasn't going to go slow now. He was done “looking after” Sherlock, and he would simply have to make sure he wasn't completely broken by the time he was done with him. 

Without warning, he grasped Sherlock's hips and forced his cock home in one hard, deep thrust, crying out heatedly as the tight passage was forced to give way to him. 

If Sherlock hadn't been forcing himself to relax, the brutality of Moriarty's next move would have undoubtedly torn something inside him. As it was, his rim was bleeding, the puckered skin stretched too quickly and too viciously. 

“Breathe!” Moriarty barked, giving him a moment to control his screaming. Well, truthfully, the sound of his pain was more of an aphrodisiac than anything else could be to the psychopath. He would never be able to stop getting off on inflicting pain on others.

Sherlock by now had buried his face in the pillow to mute the sound of his screams, fearful that Lestrade would actually show up. If he heard him screaming like this, he would definitely send in a team. Tears poured from his eyes, and he gulped breath into his lungs, trying to do as James told him even in the face of this pain.

Having given Sherlock as much time as he was willing, he began to move, pulling out almost completely and thrusting back in deep and hard. He began a punishing pace as he fucked his conquest. Every so often, it occurred to him that Sherlock had been a virgin up until a few moments ago, and every time it did, his thrusts intensified. Knowing what he had taken from him was hotter than hell. 

“Oh, and Sherly darling?” he jeered. “I have unbelievable stamina. I can do this all fucking night if I want.” He let out an unsettling, rather manic laugh, grasping Sherlock's hips firmly as he tried to cringe away from the pain.

Sherlock winced and cringed his way through Moriarty's thrusts. He had been willing, and yet Moriarty had insisted on violating him anyway. He truly didn't want Sherlock willingly, he wanted him under duress, as he had said. 

He went quiet, crying silently into his pillow as he was fucked relentlessly.

He wasn't sure why he was surprised to realise that James Moriarty had told him the truth when he said that submission was no fun unless it was under duress. He had been honest, and Sherlock had convinced himself that it was an intimidation tactic. Well, he would remember this night if he ever felt as though he would make the same mistake again.

James let out a low hiss upon realising that Sherlock was sobbing quietly. 

Not out of conscience, whatever gave you a silly idea like that?

It turned him on. 

He had broken such a brilliant mind better than heroin or his original plan for the detective ever could have. His body now belonged to James Moriarty, his will too, and the best part was knowing he would have him time and time again and Sherlock would have no choice in the matter. 

Even better... James would make this so good for Sherlock that he anticipated he would beg him to come back and fuck him. 

He glanced down, growling as he watched his own cock pushing and pulling in and out of Sherlock's abused hole. There was a trickle of deep red blood across his shaft. It made something break in his mind, and he grunted his pleasure aloud. Broken him, physically and mentally, and the evidence was smeared across his cock. 

The power made his head spin, and he shifted the angle of his hips, pleased to hear a tell-tale gasp from Sherlock. He growled with satisfaction, and vowed he would make the little bitch come if it took all day long. He had trained himself to last for hours when necessary, and planned to take full advantage of that today. 

“Scream for me, Sherlock. Cry, beg me to stop, whatever you need, but I'm not stopping till we're both spent and you're begging me to keep fucking you deep and hard!” 

He punctuated each word with a violent thrust against his prostate, slapping his arse once, he moved a hand under the detective and began to fist his cock in time with his strokes.

Sherlock clutched at his pillow the whole time, hating what was happening to him, and hoping he could endure this. He tried to go inside his mind palace, and had just about achieved it, ready to step away from what was happening to his physical body, when he felt something that made him all but yowl. 

His tears continued pouring down his cheeks, but the feeling of his prostate being stimulated by the blunt head of Moriarty's cock was utterly unfair. This wasn't right! Moriarty shouldn't be forcing him to enjoy what was happening to him! 

He let out a yell as his prostate was hit again, trembling now, every touch forcing his body to react while his mind rebelled. 

“I loathe you,” Sherlock hissed.

James growled at the hissed statement. He pulled Sherlock up with an arm wrapped around his chest, and pressed the detective's back to his chest, sucking the gorgeous curve where Sherlock's neck met his shoulder. He tilted his head up, the other man's height making it so he had to stretch his neck. 

“No, you don't,” he sing-songed confidently, and with more strength than one would expect of a man so slight, he used his body to turn them both so they were facing the mirror. Now, Sherlock could see just what he looked like split open by James Moriarty's cock.

Sherlock cried out as James manhandled him, and he clenched his eyes shut, not wanting to enjoy the sensation at his throat, but it was almost impossible to ignore. He whimpered, and replied in a hiss, “Yes, I do. I loathe you.” 

He slowed his movements, and gripped Sherlock's chin in his hand, forcing him to look in the mirror.

“Watch, darling, stop fighting,” he crooned. “Just watch what I'm doing to you, and feel.” 

His hips rolled, pulling slowly out of Sherlock's tight hole, till just the head of his cock was left inside. Just as slowly, he pressed back inside, pushing deeply and brushing over Sherlock's prostate. He continued in this manner, working his submissive's cock with a satisfied smirk when he realised he was rock hard, the tip of his cock wet enough that James knew he was enjoying this, despite everything. 

“I told you I would hurt you, but that doesn't mean you aren't allowed to enjoy it, my sweet Sherlock. Now, focus,” he murmured close to his ear, and kissed his shoulder. Compared to how he had first entered Sherlock, this was positively tender in comparison.

Sherlock was in something of a tailspin. He could easily deduce why Moriarty would want to hurt him. It didn't make it any easier to bear. He had been willing, eager even, and James had still insisted on hurting him. It felt like the most intimate and awful betrayal, and the worst part was... he was enjoying it.

He didn't want to comply, but the moment he opened his eyes and looked at their reflections in the mirror, he let out a moan. It looked absolutely filthy and debauched, and he could scarcely believe it was really happening. The insistent, slow pressure on his prostate was much better than the brutal fucking he had endured, and even with the sting of his damaged body, and the blood, it felt better than anything he'd ever felt before. Fuck heroin, this was his new addiction.

He let out an agonised groan, not wanting to give in, but his body betrayed him. He bore down on James' cock, his moans turning into a gasp, and finally let his body relax when he felt a kiss to his shoulder. Somehow, that one taste of gentleness was all it took. 

As soon as he relaxed, James moaned. The realisation that Sherlock was enjoying this, despite the pain he had inflicted on him (or maybe because of it), made his head spin. He released his grasp on Sherlock's cock so he could wrap his arms around him, holding him close. The mood had shifted, taking on an urgent sort of intimacy. 

“That's it, sweet, innocent Sherlock,” he growled against the tender flesh of his neck. “Relax, and take your medicine.” He lavished the detective's neck with attention, sucking and kissing and nipping at it until Sherlock was gasping with need. 

“Not medicine,” Sherlock whispered, tilting his head to give James better access to his neck. “It's a drug.”

This was worse than heroin, and the truly frightening thing to Sherlock was that he knew it would be far more addictive than anything he ever took into his body before. 

He rolled his hips back to meet James' every thrust, his entire body languid now he was no longer in pain. He reached his hand behind him to tangle his hand in Moriarty's hair, wanting to feel it beneath his fingers, to burn every sense memory of this into his mind palace. 

James' thrusts began to quicken again, but they were nowhere near as violent as before. He had already taken what he needed, now he was going to make sure they both enjoyed themselves, and he was going to see to it that Sherlock would beg for his return to be sooner, rather than later. 

With that in mind, he murmured against the man's ear, “I love you Sherlock Holmes. The light to my darkness...” As he said it he rolled his hips in and out of him, both their eyes locked on their joint bodies reflected in the mirror. He returned to stroking his partner's cock in time with his thrusts.

Sherlock immediately stilled all movement. 

It was a cruelty he hadn't expected, and his lips pressed together in a thin, unhappy line. He doesn't love you. At least, he hoped he didn't. And Sherlock certainly didn't love Moriarty, even if he would allow him to use his body. It was all in the name of keeping John safe. That didn't equate to love.

Moriarty let out a throaty chuckle as Sherlock froze. So that had garnered him a reaction! 

“It's okay, darling. We both know I'm not capable of love, and we both know that you love someone who won't ever love you back. I want you, though. Your body, your soul, your magnificent brain. And you'll give it to me, Sherlock. Over and over again, whenever I wish to take it. Not to keep your dear Doctor Watson safe, oh no! That's what brought us to this point, but you'll come back because you need it. More than you need cocaine or heroin. More than you need your pretty little distractions – your experiments, your cases, your friends...” He said the word like it sickened him. “You need me inside you, around you, to own you. Maybe not right now, but you will.”

Sherlock clenched his jaw, not wanting to get into all that with Moriarty. He saw far more than Sherlock would ever admit to, because of course he did! It didn't mean that Sherlock was happy about it, however. He let out a low whimper, because hearing Moriarty whisper filth in his ear about how Sherlock needed him inside him was doing wretchedly appealing things to him. 

Moriarty chose that moment to bite down on Sherlock's neck as he moved inside him, thrusting in and out harder now, still hitting that sweet spot over and over, his hand working expertly on Sherlock's cock. 

“You were born to bottom, my love. No woman or man would be satisfied with this delicate cock of yours, lovely though it is,” he purred as he worked the man toward orgasm.

Sherlock both hated and loved the way his brain was slowly being overpowered by physical sensation, the relentless pressure on his prostate, the hand around his cock, Moriarty's breath against his neck... it all conspired to make his brain white out. It was definitely worse than heroin, because he knew that after this, he would crawl over broken glass just to lick James Moriarty's cock. 

He let out a low howl as he came hard, Moriarty's whispering finishing him off completely. His bed, and his stomach, were both covered in his come, and he writhed against Moriarty, his body and his hole twitching as little aftershocks of his orgasm ran through him.

Sherlock coming was more intense than James had expected, and he grunted as he thrust one last time and came deep inside him, jerking his hips in short, sharp movements to milk himself dry in the man's hole.

“Fuck!” he swore. “Sherlock, darling, that was wonderful. I've not come like that in years,” he purred, pulling out of Sherlock and moving away from his body so he could see the beautiful show before him. 

Sherlock's abused hole dripped with come and lube, the whole decadent mess trickling down his perfect arse and thighs. Moriarty growled at the sight, and glanced up at the mirror, catching Sherlock's stunned gaze. He hauled him upright so he could see the mess between his legs. 

“Such a pretty slut you are,” he murmured. “You're gaping and dripping with my come...” 

Sherlock shivered, staring at the mess that had been made of him, and all he could think was that he wanted to look like this every day of his life. 

Sadly, James was already getting off the bed, and Sherlock's legs were too shaky to follow him. 

“I still hate you,” Sherlock hissed.

Moriarty paused mid-step. He moved around the bed so he was facing Sherlock, and pulled him into a hard, deep kiss. It was more threatening than tender, and reminded the detective that he was involved with a dangerous madman.

“I'll be seeing you, honey,” he growled. “If you need me before I need you, you know how to get in touch.” 

He smirked, as though he anticipated Sherlock would crack before he did.

He dressed quickly while Sherlock slumped on the bed, trembling and trying to regain a steady level of breathing. He was out of the flat before Sherlock could move, passing John just as he was paying a cab driver. Keeping his head down, and his identity mostly covered, he stepped into the taxi. The fact he smelled of sex, and Sherlock, while standing so close to Watson was just the cherry on top of the afternoon's delight. 

Back inside Baker Street, Sherlock was surprised by just how drained he was, but he supposed coming twice in one afternoon, and the rough and brutal treatment he'd received was enough to wear anyone out. He looked at his own reflection in something of a daze. He bit his lower lip, unsure why the sight of himself looking so completely fucked out was so much fun. 

The frightening thing was that despite his hatred for the bastard, it wasn't enough, and would never be enough to make him keep away from Moriarty. He would call him, time and time again, to come back and do things to him that would appal John if only he knew. 

He reluctantly moved to the edge of his bed, wincing at the pain in his arse. He had been made to bleed earlier, he knew that much, and was frightened that he would need medical attention. He grabbed his dressing gown and pulled it on, making his way unsteadily to the bathroom. He had a massive hickey on his throat from where Moriarty had bitten him, and he could see it in the mirror the second he stepped into the room. He shook his head, and started rummaging in the medicine cupboard to find some antiseptic.

John moved up the stairs of 221b Baker Street, worried about Sherlock. He'd not been able to get through to him on the phone, and since Moriarty was now free he had to make sure his best friend was safe. Greg had mentioned an odd phone call, and suggested that Sherlock was indulging in some personal time, whatever that meant. 

John didn't care. He just had to make sure he wouldn't walk in to find Sherlock with the laser light of a sniper's scope on his forehead again, or worse.

"Sherlock!?" he called loudly through the flat. 

Sherlock nearly shit a brick when he heard John calling his name, and he immediately tied his dressing gown shut. He panicked when he realised the hickey could still be seen, and worse, when he realied that he hadn't had time to clean up the mess in his bedroom, nor the tea things from when Moriarty had been earlier. 

John heard water running in the bathroom. The door was open so he didn't knock, just entered and breathed a sigh of relief when he found Sherlock alive and well.

“Sherlock!” he snapped. “Didn't you hear me?” he demanded, not really focused on Sherlock, too lost in his own outrage. 

Sherlock hunched his head down, trying to conceal the hickey, and pretended like he was just about to brush his teeth. 

“I heard you,” he said. “However, I was using the bathroom at the time...” 

“Oh, right.” John said, deflating a little. “Greg told you Moriarty got off, then?”

Sherlock nearly choked, but managed to compose himself. 

“Oh, I know he got off...” he drawled. 

John nodded, looking a little sour his news had been stolen, but pleased Sherlock had been warned. 

“Oh, right, good. Well, I'll let you get on with it, then. He's not been here though, has he? Greg thought he might be headed here when he left the courthouse.”

He didn't pay any attention to Sherlock, he didn't want to look at another man while he was taking care of business in the bathroom, even if it was just brushing his teeth.

“Do you genuinely think that I would be in my dressing gown had Moriarty been here?” Sherlock sneered, throwing John a scornful look. 

He shook his head and began brushing his teeth, half for a reason to be in the bathroom that would be innocent enough to John, half to wash the taste of Moriarty from his lips. 

“Good point,” John said, clueless. “I'll go pop the kettle on, make some tea.” He headed out of the bathroom, completely oblivious, to what had just taken place or what his best friend had been forced to do to keep him safe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Co-written with tinibazinga as a first draft, rejiggered by me. Enjoy!

**Author's Note:**

> There is a LOT more coming, don't worry!


End file.
